Chapter 2: And I know, A Change Gonna Come.

* Text in between a pair of "-,"s indicates that the sentence is written, rather than spoken.

* Text between the pair of £££££'s denotes a flashback.

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The first night hadn't been easy for Joshua. He couldn't sleep, regardless of every remedy for insomnia that he tried. After the fiftieth counted sheep, he gave up; it was almost sunrise and sleep had become a bothersome necessity. It just wasn't working tonight. Everything was still so raw and new; he hadn't completely dismissed the theory that he was in a coma and this was his mind playing out his biggest fears. The sudden change in his life had barely sunk in.

His nose poked further into the pillow and his heated eyes dried themselves on the Egyptian cotton of his duvet. He was completely alone: No mother, no father, no Dalores, no Blair and no Barnell. Everyone was gone, dwelling in the life he left behind – the life he once knew.

Angry tears sizzled into the soft fabric as he remembered the people in his life. He remembered Dalores's jolly and plump face, and the way her smile squinched his worries as if it was glorious light. Since being forced under the régime of that blonde harlot, he'd never see the jubilant maid again. His head span and his diaphragm tensed in torment as he realized that Dalores was no longer a part of his life.

The pillow could no longer absorb his tears, and thus allowed them to fall down the sides and onto the mattress.

Why me? What did I do to deserve this?

As the sound of Dalores's voice articulated itself in his mind, Josh found himself flicking through his recent memories of home; the last memories of his normal life.

In the rush of the week, Josh never had the time to reflect on what had happened. The shock and fear had, in some ways, preserved him and prevented him from looking back on his last few days in California.

But he felt as if he needed to go back; he needed to remind himself of what he went through. His barriers dropped, and suddenly, a surge of heavy memories exploded in his mind with an electrifying pulse.

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"Joshua, your father and I need to speak with you," said an algific voice from outside his bedroom. "It's about tomorrow night."

Josh had been listening to music while staring at the television; he was tired from his run a few hours before, and his brain wasn't working to its full potential. The music had created a bubble around him, sheltering him from the disturbances of outside world.

"Joshua, what're you doing in there? Open the door!"

Through the baritone groans of the base guitar, he heard a muffled murmur from outside; it was high, piercing and ascended in tone.

.. Mother.

He leapt to his feet and approached the entrance to his room, turning the knob and swinging the door open.

"Finally!" She snapped, rolling her eyes to express her agitation. "What took you?"

Josh smiled awkwardly and brushed his fingers through the hair on the back of his head, and fixed his eyes onto the floor behind his mother.

"I was wearing my headphones - my new headphones, that, err, you got for me .. thanks again for that - and I guess I couldn't hear you. Sorry."

His mother sighed through her pique, rolled her eyes, and continued:

"Your father and I wish to talk to you at 8pm sharp. Meet us in the office."

Josh nodded. For his mother to say 'at 8pm sharp,' was perfectly normal to him. Seldom did she show warmth or love towards him; such feelings were put into clothes, designer handbags and other necessities instead.

It was 7.45pm, and Josh had a few minutes to kill. Turning back toward his bed, he noticed his phone lighting up on his bedside table. He picked it up and scanned over the screen with his eyes:

-Josh, open your curtains –

If he didn't know who had sent the text, he'd probably be a tad uneasy. But, it was only Barnell Bohusk – the son of the neighbors, and a person Josh considered to be one of his closest friends.

He and Barnell had grown up together, under the politics of wealthy parents. Not many could understand their position, nor relate to the struggles of living with financial vampires: people who sapped life from any source that could boost their bank accounts.

Josh often asked himself if money was his parents' religion. If not, what was? Reputation? Appearances? Automobiles? Could these even be considered religions? Josh looked at his parents, and he looked at Barnell's parents. Every aspect of their day-to-day lives were governed in light of the facilitation of money. If his Dad cooked, it was because he wished to appear to be a 'home dad,' to wealthy corporation owners, and leaders of law firms. He would never cook, simply for the love of it. His mother too, was a puppet of the Foley establishment's economics. She wouldn't leave the house to 'see a friend,' or 'to go to the movies,' unless this friend was the wife of a powerful CEO, or this 'movie,' was the premier of the year's latest blockbuster. Nothing the woman did was in the name of passion; she worked for two things: herself and money.

When Josh was younger, he often wondered what would his mother do on a sinking ship that required a drop in weight to stay above the water. What would she throw out?

Her 3,000$ fur coat, herself, or Joshua?

The teenager always came to the same conclusion: he believed - although it defied all laws under the natural order – that she would toss him out, even before she'd part with the coat, or God forbid, herself. However, he didn't harbor any anger at her, for this reality. This was his mother, and this was just the way she was. He loved her anyway.

Remembering Barnell's text, Josh slid open the curtains and revealed the side of his neighbor's house. From his window, he could see Barnell's room, and eventually, the boy himself, seated on his own bed. The neighbor noticed Josh and smiled before approaching his window.

Josh got to his knees and crawled under his bed, pulling a notepad out from a box, which was shoved into the leg of his bed-frame. He wrote a quick note on it, and held it to the window.

- All okay? Just got your text - he wrote.

Barnell chuckled and began scribbling a note of his own:

- My parents insisted that I go to another dinner party with them. Kill me, please. –

This time, Josh was the one to laugh, holding the back of his hand to his nose to inhibit a snort.

- I have to meet mine at 8pm and it's probably about a dinner party as well. Lets hope I'm not writing: 'mine insisted too,' later on! -

Barney half-smiled, and began swirling the pen on the page.

- I'd pay good money to see you write that –

- Funny, aren't you? Well, even if they did 'insist,' I'd tell them the truth: I'm sick – Josh wrote back.

-You are? –

He wiped his forehead and bit his bottom lip as he held a tight grip on his marker and composed his written reply.

- Haven't been feeling great, Barney-boy. I don't know what's wrong; I just have a tingling sensation all over my skin and, not to mention, a migraine from hell.–

A mock-evil smile befell Barnell's face.

- So you could possibly get sick in front of your parents' renowned friends and colleagues? Or better yet, you could pass out at their feet? Hell, I'd pay more than good money to see that! I'd even sit through one of your Dad's boring macro-economics lessons just to get myself invited -

Josh buckled over laughing, uncontrollably drooling a little on the floor, before composing himself and taking a deep breathe.

- You little bastard, – he quipped back, underlining the curse word three or four times.

- A little bastard who's still 'bigger' than you, – His friend mocked back, winking, and pointing an index finger - with a thumb in the air - towards Josh.

The blonde teenager's jaw dropped and he leapt to his feet, defying the protracted muscles in his stomach, which demanded less mirth.

- YOU'LL PAY FOR THAT ONE BARNEY BOY! – Josh wrote, evoking a fake tremble from the recipient.

- You say that every time, yet last time I checked, I was still breathing – Barnell noted, roughly sketching a circle around 'still.'

- Consider yourself lucky that I'm lazy, Bohusk – Josh wrote, with an animated smiley face at the end of his sentence.

- Consider yourself lucky that I have a watch; you were meant to meet your parents five minutes ago! Ha Ha! -

Josh immediately checked the clock, and indeed, it was five past the hour. His writing exchanges with his neighbor had completely distracted him from the time.

He quickly mimed: "I'm going to kill you," before he dashed out of his bedroom, subjecting Barnell to the sight of his empty bedroom. His neighbor snorted at their banter, before closing the curtains and tucking himself into bed.

Josh cursed the size of his house. His front door was met by a sparkling staircase, which split the house into two wings. His parents' office was at the other side of the mansion; he would have to cross the top of the stairs and enter the other wing, before shambling down another set of spiral steps, which descended into the organs of the house. He would have to shuffle past the grand piano and cross the entrance to the game room, where the hood ornaments of the family's previous 'Rose Royce's' were exhibited.

His feet made a deep thucking sound on the marble as he sprinted in the direction of the office. He glided past many closed doors, most of which were rooms that Josh had never ventured into before. It wasn't as if he had never explored his own house, it was more the fact that the majority of his necessities could be met between the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, thus rendering other quarters of the house obsolete.

Josh wondered if he could complete his entire fitness session within the confines of his own home. It was possible after-all, judging on the amplitude of the building.

The teenager's legs came to a halt, when he found himself outside the office. With a knock on the towering alpine door, he was called in by a unison of frosty voices.

His mother and father sat at the other side of a long cherry-oak desk. Mr. Foley's fingers were intertwined on the table, while his mother twisted and fidgeted with a ruby ring above her knuckle.

Josh cursed their expectation of meticulous timing.

His father's gaze was evanescent, and his woebegone eyes fixed themselves on Josh, but as the teenager attempted to construct eye-contact, his father's head flicked downwards.

"Sorry, I'm late," Josh panted, as the last fibers of his energy sacrificed themselves to ameliorate the situation through an apologetic pretense, "I nodded off and when I woke up, I was late. Is everything okay? What did you need me for?"

His father's exasperation was apparent through his sigh. "Your mother and I have been waiting for you since 8pm. For you to barge in like this is completely unacceptable."

Josh's fingers pressed firmly into the chair as indignation filled him.

He distinctly remembered knocking.

"I don't recall barging, father," retorted Josh. "I knocked."

Josh's father slammed a hand on the desk, causing a prodigious thwack to echo down the halls.

"You will address me as Mr. Foley, and you will not back-answer me," he berated, opening his eyes capaciously and focusing on the teen with intensity.

"Now sit down and listen to what your mother has to say."

Fore-bearing his irritation, Josh lowered himself onto the chair, and brought his attention to his mother, who cleared her throat and looked at her son.

"Your father and I will be hosting a dinner party tomorrow night."

It was as Josh expected. His head filled with a plethora of images: carrying trays of finger-food to conceited CEO's and loud, pontificating firm-heads, while replenishing endless glasses of punch, and simultaneously trudging through crowds of people with a lighthouse-like migraine in his head.

"Mom, moth- err, Mrs. Foley, I haven't been feeling all that great today. I have a headache right here," he exclaimed, pointing to the apex of his head, "and my skin is hypersensitive. I don't think I'm well enough to work to a high enough standard."

His mother raised an eyebrow, and tapped her long nails on the desk.

"When did this come about?"

"On and off for a few months."

"You never told anyone? Dalores could have given you an aspirin," reminded his mother.

"Dalores has enough to do, I didn't want to bother her."

"A stoic decision," his father interjected, leaning back on his armchair and bringing his intertwined fingers to rest across his chest.

"But it is no excuse. You must help hand out refreshments to the guests. These people are very important to mother and I, and it's imperative that you impress them."

Josh remained silent as the pits of his stomach continued to churn at the earlier images in his head. His thoughts were inundated with lassitude, and suddenly everything he looked forward to that week, was befogged by the dread of the task before him. He was in no mood to be fake to people he didn't care about. The headache - which surged through his temples - overwrote any enthusiasm for conversation that managed to survive the first beam of the migraine earlier.

.. But,

he trusted his parents. If they thought something was seriously wrong, they wouldn't have insisted that he help at he dinner party. At the end of the day, they were his parents and they loved him. Regardless of their differences, they would wish no harm upon him, and therefore, the pain in his head and the tingles on his skin must not be anything too severe.

"Okay, I'll help," he demurred, bringing a hand to ruffle through his locks. "But Dalores will be helping me, right?"

His parents nodded.

"Good!" The teen cheered. "Helping out a bit and making some conversation shouldn't be a problem, especially when Dalores is helping out."

His parents smiled aloofly, before rising to their feet.

"Well it seems we've discussed everything needed," Mr Foley concluded, extending a hand to his son who shook it concretely. "Dress in your most formal attire, and do what you always do at our little gatherings."

"Oh," Mrs. Foley interrupted, "and remember the rule."

Josh nodded courteously before heading for the door and commencing his trek back to his bedroom.

The meeting – although starting off rough – ended with a modicum of felicity. His father, in all his distance, shook Josh's hand. Such an occurrence was rare, and defied the lack of warmth, that his parents' usually practiced. Tonight was a good night, and Josh allowed himself to inflate with the feelings of ebullience and joy. His father, shook his hand, even in front of his mother. It was just too good to be true. Such an extension of ardor from his father meant only one thing:

He approved.

Josh sought his father's approval since before he could remember. On television, he'd see Dads and sons fishing together, or fathers bringing their children to work; he could never understand why these activities were never be a part of his own childhood. He thought that maybe he was doing something wrong and that his father was angry at him, but, this didn't turn out to be the case, according to Dalores, who dismissed the notion with a: "your father is a busy man, but he loves you. Always has, always will."

If Josh was honest with himself, and his parents, he felt much closer to Dalores than he did to either of them. When he had a problem, he went to her; when he was in trouble, he went to her; when his grades began to slip, he went to her. Dalores was just the person he ran to in times of desperation. She was his mother, despite being void of such a title.

Josh entered his room and threw himself on the bed. Barnell's curtains were closed, but his light was on.

Josh needed to get pay back for Barney's earlier little comment. If he informed his neighbor that his parents "insisted," that he helped in the party after-all, Barney would have a field day with: "I didn't even have to pay good money!" Josh grinned with mirthful anticipation.

He couldn't let his friend win this one, not after the bashing he received in the earlier good-humored banter session. His phone lit up, and Josh braced himself for a question from Barnell who was most likely wishing to know The Foley's comments regarding their son's late arrival. His friend would most likely take great pleasure in knowing how deeply pissed off they were.

When Josh opened the message, he was surprised to see that it wasn't from Barnell:

- Josh,

Gathering outside the mayor's office, Friday,

3:30pm, 150 others going.

Hope to see you there,

Blair. –

The teenager smiled to himself. His life felt so perfect: his father shook his hand, he had found a true friend in Barnell, and he felt appreciated by Blair and the others. It couldn't get better.

It was Wednesday night, and Josh knew he didn't have long to prepare for Friday's little gathering. He had run out of supplies to make his protest signs from the last gathering, so he'd need to text Barnell and ask him if he had anything he could borrow.

- Need supplies for signs. You got any? – He texted his friend.

Within seconds, his phone sang to him, and portrayed Barnell's reply:

- Yes I do, but I'm going into the city early in the morning. If you want them, you'll have to come over now -

Josh huffed and rolled his eyes; Barnell was always so difficult.

Laughing at his exaggerated sigh, he tiptoed downstairs and exited his house.

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After climbing into Barnell's room through the window, Josh had been welcomed by an array of multi-colored markers, as well as long A2 sheets of paper.

"When is the protest?" Asked Barnell, scratching his messy, sandy colored hair with an inert swipe, as Josh focused on the page before him.

"Friday, mid-day," Josh replied demi-attentively, as his eyes scanned the paper. He lifted marker and began designing.

"Are you sure this whole thing is a good idea? I mean, whatever about your societal views, but don't you think that promoting hatred of any kind is bad?" Asked Barnell, positioning himself more comfortably on the bedframe.

The blonde stopped writing and directed his gaze upon his neighbor. With untoward eyes, Josh studied Barnell's face.

"We're not promoting hatred," he disavowed, "we're simply warning everyone about an impending danger. Blair opened my eyes to it."

Josh sat up and squinted at Barnell before continuing. "Why so circumspect?" He then cracked his knuckles with a nonchalant squeeze.

Barnell sighed, and pensively decided on a diplomatic approach to answering Josh's question.

"I guess I just don't believe in taking a definitive side," he admitted.

"But then you'll get caught in the cross-fire."

"Cross fire? Are you resorting to violence?"

"Of course not!" The blonde underscored, although his eyes were raconteurs, and vestured his assertion in uncertainty. "We, as a whole, do not resort to violence."

"But certain members in your organization have?" Barnell shot back, his supercilium draping over his eyes.

"On some occasions, yes," Josh remarked, wiping his palms on his jeans.

Barnell took a reluctant breathe of air before asking his next question. His attempts to eschew his curiosity had failed him.

"Have you ever resorted to violence?"

The question hung in the air and cleaved to the walls like a soggy moss. The air thickened, and Josh stared vacuously at his poster. Nobody spoke.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked," Barnell admitted appositely. "I was just curious."

"No, it's a fair question," Josh murmured back, giving his locks a nervous flick,

"I haven't personally put my hand on anyone, but I once saw Blair do it. He asked me to watch, so that I could learn some day." Josh bit his bottom lip as a dark expression befell him. "I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't bothered by it, but Blair assured me that it was the right thing to do, that by doing what he did, he was actually protecting the public."

Barnell shuddered and felt a frisson crawl up his spine. "W.. who did he do it to? What did he do?"

"He wanted to scare this couple from having any more kids. He said that if he ruffled up their youngest child, it would discourage them from having any more," Josh explained.

"Did he .. kill the child?"

"No.. well, I don't think so."

Stalagmites dropped in the brunette's stomach, as Josh's unfazed exterior took him aback.

"But you were there? How could you not think so?" He asked neutrally, rubbing his hands together with anxiety.

"He was alive when Blair left him on the street. But I don't know if he survived in recovery. Rumors around the organization say that he didn't, while others – including Blair - say that he's perfectly fine, but that the family simply moved out of the state. I'm not sure which is true," Josh apprised.

Barnell fell silent as Josh descended into thought.

Was he feeling guilty for these people? Did he regret not stopping Blair from hurting the boy? Josh shuddered and eschewed the thought, filing it away with haste.

What would Blair say if he caught him like this?

He giggled faintly at himself for over-thinking such a notion. Of course he didn't sympathize with them; that wouldn't be right at all. He must've just gotten mixed up with his emotions under the scrutiny of Barnell.

"But it doesn't really matter if it's true or not," Josh declared, in light of his most recent thoughts, "the mystery surrounding the kid isn't relevant. If he's dead, we've done the public a service, and if he left the state, we've done the public a service. It's a win-win situation."

Barnell gulped at the ruthless tone to Josh's voice, and held back his natural reaction.

"Damn Foley, you really seem hate them."

"Yes I do! This is why I'm making the poster, remember? To strike against them and make sure the local government doesn't do anything stupid, like grant them rights. That would be unethical."

The neighbor stood to his feet and stepped closer to Josh. "Okay, putting aside all the shit that organization has put in your head, do you think you can really trust Blair? Look how brutal he was to that kid. What if someday, that kid is you? What if you do something wrong, and he turns on you?" Speculated Barnell, who tossed his head toward the sky as his mind explored the reaches of such a possibility.

"What if he leaves you for dead?"

"And why would he do that?" Josh asked, wholeheartedly flabbergasted.

"Because he can," answered Barnell as if it were obvious. "If he didn't think he'd get away with hurting that kid, he probably wouldn't have done it. That's the reason he chose the youngest child and not the eldest of that family. He went for the easy target."

"He would never do that!" Josh defended, growing slightly agitated with his friend's defiance towards Blair. "He's an honorable man."

Barnell laughed through the seeds of irritation, which stemmed from Josh's shear inability to see the obvious.

"I won't go any further into it with you. Let's agree to disagree, but just take one thing from this conversation: be careful around Blair, okay?"

Josh demurred with a deep breath, and expelled his defenses. "Okay fine, but you still owe me."

Barnell was taken aback, and looked at his friend with a wonky eyebrow. "Owe you for what?"

"You got me in shit with my parents for holding me up!" Josh laughed, feigning anger.

"Me?" Barnell replied innocently, "I did no such thing!"

"And then you insinuated that I was .. small!"

The scruffy haired neighbor burst out laughing, exposing a line of twisted, jagged teeth. "Okay, I admit, I did do that."

Josh picked up his marker and chucked it at Barney. It landed with a plop, into a meadow of stringy hair on his head, which caused the boy to rub the disaster zone with renewed energy.

"You sneaky little –" grunted the neighbor before another marker whirled in the air and walloped into the tip of his nose.

"Ouch! Cut it out!" Barney laughed, patting his surroundings for something appropriate to throw back. He reached for a pillow with the intentions of having a shield. Another marker was catapulted, and - despite his newest defense mechanism- smacked Barnell in the temple.

"Okay, you got your payback! No more size jokes!" He resigned, bringing the pillow to his face.

A proud Josh stuck his chest out and stood to his feet.

"Now that we understand each other, I should probably run back to my house before my parents get worried."

Barney stuck his tongue out at his friend, and dropped the pillow to his lap.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. God forbid Mommy might get angry."

The alarm clock at the bedside table was launched into the air before crashing right into Barney's chest with a shrill ring.

"You won't get away with that one Foley! You just wait!" Barnell yelped, waving one fist in the air, while the other massaged the new circular bruise forming on his stomach.

"I believe I've already gotten away with it!" The blonde teen shot back.

Josh gathered up his posters and smiled, before he departed his friend's room.

He eluded through the hall, and gingerly opened the front door before slipping through. He stealthily crossed into his garden and advanced towards his own front door.

Not only did he have a good time with Barney, but, he realized something of even greater importance; something which made him want to spend more time with his neighbor:

He realized that having someone to chuck alarm clocks and markers at, felt pretty damn good.

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Josh woke up the next morning with a pulsating headache. The pain screamed and whistled through his forehead with a merciless howl.

There was a shrill ringing in his ear; the tone ascended and shrieked inside his temples, causing his arms to jerk a little.

Sitting up on the bed, Josh massaged his head while taking long, and deep breathes. This headache was not letting up, and he genuinely questioned his stamina, as thoughts of the dinner party mocked his brain.

But after father shook his hand, he needed to be there at the party. He couldn't let him down, and he certainly wouldn't leave Dalores to do all the work.

Gently pushing himself up from the bed, Josh dragged himself into the shower and allowed the water to breathe life into him. The steam twirled around his skin, before lapping into the beaded walls of the shower.

Feeling a little more human, he eventually dressed himself. It was 10am, and Barney would probably be in the city by now.

Leaving his room, a rich buttery aroma wafted past his nostrils and became more poignant as he descended. Taking a left when he reached the bottom of his marble staircase, Josh entered the kitchen and saw a familiar plump woman bent over, pulling a tray out of the oven.

She turned around and leaped slightly at the sight of him.

"Well I thought this would wake you!" She laughed, flicking the tray onto the kitchen counter. "They're almond and poppy-seed! Your favorite!"

Josh felt strings of warmth crawl through his diaphragm as she placed the cookies onto a plate. Her crumbled elbows swayed up and down as she prepared the second batch and slid them into the oven with ease. "Raspberry flavor coming up next!" She declared, walking to a chair and placing herself – along with the plate of cookies – down.

Josh copied her, and pulled up the chair across the table. The sizzling air above the cookies wiggled and slightly distorted his view of Dalores. He blew at them and reached for one.

"All ready for tonight?" She asked, softly taking a cookie for herself.

"No," he admitted, slumping his head towards the ground. "I'm feeling sick, but I told myself that I'm going to get on with it."

Dalores jumped to her feet and almost hopped over the table to Josh. The back of a hand slapped his forehead, causing him to jump a little bit as the tingling sensation on his skin began to sing.

"You're running a fever!" She said, panic seeping into her voice. "I'll talk with your parents, I can't let you be on your feet all night when you're like this!"

The memory of his father extending a hand to him glued itself to the fore-front of his mind.

"No, really, I'm okay!" He insisted, jumping up as if to prove his abilities. "I've never felt better!"

Dalores frowned, and reached for his hand, gently holding it in her own before continuing.

"Not wanting to do something is completely different to not being able to. You are not able to do this tonight, not with a fever like that." She took a breath and continued, "your parents will understand. I'll ask them myself."

Josh used his free hand to play with his hair.

He knew Dalores was looking out for him, but he couldn't – wouldn't – let his parents down after his father's previous warmth. If he wished to retain his father's attention, he'd need to meet the task at hand: sick, or not sick.

"Yesterday, Mr. Foley, erm .. Dad, shook my hand. I told him that I was sick and but that I was willing to help anyone. I think he respected the fact I made no big deal about it."

Dalores's eyes widened and her cheeks inflated a little further. Her frown didn't pass and Josh noticed that it almost intensified.

"I know that must have been a big step for him," she acknowledged, doing her best to dissect the imbroglio before her.

"And I know that you don't want to disappoint him. But, you're sick, sweetie. Not only should you be asleep, but you can't be around food when you could have a flu or virus."

Josh's chest flattened, and he realized that she was not only looking out for him, but everyone else as well.

She truly was a caring person.

Her care was sometimes alien to him; he never felt it before until he met her. Originally, the teenager thought she was out to get him, or that, she always had an underlying agenda.

However, he eventually came to realize that there would be no purpose for deception. She washed clothes; baked cookies; cleaned dishes and made beds. What ulterior motive could exist under these circumstances?

She just cared. There were no strings attached: whipping up batches upon batches of cookies didn't benefit her in any way, nor, was she paid anymore for producing them. She just liked making others happy, and this concept was once alien to Josh.

But she fixed that. Her mending of his distrust was a simple serendipity, which neither of them knew would be the missing puzzle piece in Josh's ability to care for others. She filled a part of him, which even he didn't know existed.

"I don't have a flu or virus," Josh said with a warm smile, "I've had this headache for months now. It's at it's worst during the morning, but it tends to settle down by afternoon. By nighttime, I'll be as good as new."

Dalores seemed to demur, and gently wrapped a toasty hand around his neck. It appeared she was not going to be mulish today.

"Okay, but next time you're not feeling well, please tell me," she groaned with a concerned frown.

"You know how I worry."

Her words encircled Josh for a moment before he responded:

"No need to worry! I'll tell you next time, okay?"

She smiled fervently before letting him go, ambling to the kitchen counter and brushing away some crumbs.

"Now why don't you get the tables ready in the living room, while I clean up around here?"

Josh smirked and snatched a cookie.

"Of course! I'll make sure to get some of my flu on the forks!" He winked at his maternal figurehead before lightly skipping out of the room.

The maid in Dalores shuddered, before she remembered their earlier success in confirming that he didn't have a cold of any kind.

"That boy," she drawled endearingly to herself, with an ardent smile.

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Josh's legs experienced minor ataxia, and he fell to his knees with a gasp. Dalores's humming from outside seemed to muffle his wheezing, as a needle-like sensation pinned through his leg.

The tingling sensation had besieged his flesh, numbing and gnawing at it at simultaneously. Before, it had been exclusive to the tips of his nerves; for it to travel into the cores of his body, worried Josh immensely.

The blonde groaned as he helped himself to his feet, leaning on his 'good leg,' as he pressure-tested the other. The pain waned, and save the goldenrod bruise forming on his knee, Josh suddenly felt completely unimpaired.

Dismissing it as a dead-leg, Josh continued to clear the clutter in the living room – where the guests would eventually be.

It took a lot of work to make the rooms suitable for guests. Due to the size of the house, dust bunnies seemed to enjoy gathering in corners and windowsills; Dalores had warned him especially of these, as she was usually their executioner and knew of all their hiding places.

Josh had been successful in tidying the rooms and thus allowed himself to unwind on the sofa. The living room certainly looked more prestigious since he attacked it with his cleaning supplies.

A circular table held the notorious fruit-punch, which Josh acquainted himself with. The sofa sat in the middle of the room and angled itself towards the plasma television, which boasted itself on the wall. The walls were a creamy lavender and gasconaded the acclaimed works of local artists; one of the pictures portrayed three green hills: gently obscuring their boarders and creating a corrugated flow to trickle down the junctions.

It was the first time Josh had seen the picture.

The floor was buttressed with teakwood and raised slightly in the corner to serve as a miniscule stage. The stereo towered in the opposite corner and gently bombilated a tune.

Stepping back, he admired his work.

Despite his sickness, he had cleaned the most prominent room in the house, and could now safely call it the cynosure of the establishment.

Dalores's touch evoked a sparkle in the kitchen: The counters gleamed and the newly wiped windows thanked her in the form of extra- scintillating light. She sat with a puff and dropped the cleaning supplies to her sides.

"Living-room cleaned?" She asked, wiping her forehead.

"Yes it is!" Josh chirped, stepping aside and allowing her to view the other room.

"My my! The guests will be very impressed with you!" She opined, grinning widely towards Josh.

"Yeah, impressed with mother and father's choice of cleaning company,more-like," he replied.

Dalores lifted a brow and folded her arms in bewilderment. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"We have this rule," Josh continued, as he fiddled with his thumbs, "that if anyone makes a compliment, I must direct it back towards mother and father."

Dalores's expression intensified and the corners of mouth separated as her lips opened a little. She seemed as if she didn't quite hear him.

"I'm afraid I'm still a little lost," she admitted, "could you give me an example?"

Josh nodded and took a breath. "If one of the guests were to compliment something about me, lets say, my hair, I would have to say, 'I'm just lucky that I was born with my mother's hair,' or something," Josh explained. "I don't really mind. It's just an inconvenience because saying 'thank you,' is just so much easier." He smiled hopefully, wishing to evoke a facsimile from Dalores, but failed in his attempts.

"Why sweetheart," she gasped, "that is truly.. uncanny."

Josh's head perked up. "How so?"

Dalores brought her voice to a whisper after reminding herself that she was still under the roof of the Foley's home.

"They wish for you to direct every compliment back towards them? Why Josh, honey, that is simply egotistical beyond words."

Josh's stomach plummeted; were his parents really that self-indulged? He thought that it was simply one of their ways of impressing their guests. Was he wrong?

"I thought it was mother and father trying to paint themselves in the best possible light," Josh said, unsure whether he was asking or reinforcing.

"It doesn't matter, sweetie," answered Dalores matter-of-factly, "they shouldn't use you to feed their egos. That's wrong. Imagine if I took the credit for cleaning the living room, after all the effort you put into it? You would be angry! And quite rightly so!"

Josh conceded. Had someone taken responsibility for cleaning the room that he worked so hard cleaning, he would be angry. What was the difference between that and a 'wonderful cleaning company,' doing it? He realized that Dalores was right; it was wrong of them to force him to bounce compliments back towards them.

Suddenly the sublimity behind his father's handshake began to wither.

"You're right," he sighed, "I should've seen that. I'm sorry." He tilted his head and faced the floor.

The round maid suddenly embraced him in a hug. The ardor she expressed wrapped around him like a heated coat, and he felt himself melt into her.

"Never apologize for being wronged, Josh. Always remember that."

They stood in the center of the kitchen. The silence – in and of itself – said enough. Words were left behind, and their inactivity spoke a thousand sentences.

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"We'd love to stay late, but the jet's been organized to leave very early in the morning," said one of the guests and she gulped the remnants of her wine.

These were the kinds of conversations Josh had to partake in. He had to consciously remind himself to upkeep his pretense of enthusiasm, as he felt his beclouded disinterest seep through the exterior.

Josh was yet to find himself submitting to the terms of the rule. He had received a few compliments from the guests, and instead of directing them towards his parents, he embraced them with a simple 'thank you.' Josh couldn't help but feel slightly liberated.

Suppressing a yawn, he excused himself from the conversation on a point of personal privilege. As he advanced towards the restroom, he noticed Dalores doing her best to hold her own in a conversation regarding the reduced recline of chairs in the first class seating area of airplanes. His acumen told him that she would pay good money to escape such a confabulation, and he pondered methods of sparing her. It seemed the woman engaging Dalores in conversation wasn't going to let her off the hook to easily, and Josh decided that his presence would just add to the audience, and give her more of a reason to babble. With a sympathetic sigh towards the maid, he entered the restroom.

As the night matured and the trays of finger food dwindled to a few meager pieces of meat, Josh felt as if he was going to collapse. The tingles on his skin surged through his bones and his strobe-lightish migraine began to creep nearer to the back of his head. His vision had progressively degenerated through-out the night, but Josh attributed this towards fatigue.

The teenager shuddered at the thought of a coin meeting the floor; A shrill noise of the likes, would certainly be a nail in his coffin.

His skin was on end.

Dalores had cleaned up the dregs of the now departed guests and she too insinuated the need for sleep. With a nod from the Foley's, she was granted her leave, and thus grabbed her handbag and headed for the door, but not before saying goodbye to the teenager.

"Remember what I said," she whispered, before kissing him on the cheek. "I'm always here for you."

Dysphoria surged through him as the concept of being lonely in his bedroom began to consume him. Ever since he was ten years old, the sadness he felt when Dalores had to leave, never degenerated; it was a chronic emotion and always seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach.

"I know," he whispered back wistfully, "thank you for everything."

She accentuated her smile before turning for the open door and advancing towards her car. She looked back once; her eyes spoke a million words, and Josh raised a flat palm and swayed it side-to-side. They were both thinking the same thing, but their body language made speech redundant.

He could read it in her face; he could see that she wished to say three simple words:

"I love you."

Josh watched his mother drive away, and couldn't help but feel his melancholy intensify at her departure.

He couldn't lie to himself any longer:

He wanted to go with her.

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That night had not been easy for Josh. All attempts of dormir were made, but it seemed as if his headache cheated his need to sleep.

Blair had texted him earlier: reminding him of the upcoming protest. Josh again, questioned his abilities to involve himself. This illness was zapping every fragment of power in his body, and his willpower had dipped beyond the trenches of zero, and into the negative.

His optical haziness had not cleared since arriving in his room either, and Josh could feel the inauguration of a strep throat. When he wished his mother – his biological one- goodnight, a croak had supplanted his words, a testament to his occult malady.

With permission to retire, Joshua cuddled into his bed, and endeavored sleep.

Of course, dormancy did not immediately claim him the way his thoughts did. He mentally prepared himself for the next day: the protest.

Similarly to his parents, Josh couldn't let Blair down. The last time Josh saw the man, he was told of how much of an asset he was to the organization. Save Dalores and Barnell, nobody had ever made Josh feel so wanted before.
He experienced something foreign when Blair informed Josh of his importance to the team; it was a conflated feeling of raw warmth and joy, and Josh allowed himself to embrace the surge of bliss, which billowed to the tips of his fingers and toes, as a result. Yet, a furtive awareness assumed itself within this formula: Josh couldn't help but feel slightly, even just a little bit, over his head. And then the offspring of felicity and uncertainty trickled through his nerves.

He saw what Blair could do – would do – and never wished to incur the same wrath unleashed upon that young teenager - the one he spoke of to Barney.

Conversely, Blair and the others felt like family to him; the family he never had. His mind darted back to that drizzly September twilight, when he first met Blair. The man recognized Josh's lethargy and his desolation of zeal; he knew that Josh needed a constant in his life: something that dwelled beyond the dimensions of currency and economics, but also was not fickle and subject to change.

What Josh needed, was a cause.

.. And Blair gave him just that.

Josh's thoughts became more, and more soporific, causing his eyelids to weigh themselves over his eyes.

The question of Blair's affiliation was a heavy dissertation in his mind, and was not a subject he dabbled in often.

Whatever Blair did in the past, Josh was certain that he had good reason to do so. Without him, Josh argued that he wouldn't be half the person he was today. Even when he was at his worst, Blair saw something in him. The more Josh learned about what the organization did, and what they represented, Josh started to find a reason.

Fatigue pressed itself onto him, like a thick humidity, and Josh could feel his consciousness gently ebb away.

Tomorrow was a new day, holding new experiences for him. The thought of being surrounded by Blair and the others, ignited the flame of content in his belly. His ease allowed his worries and thoughts to slip away, and his heed finally submitted to the axioms of his enervation.

Then he fell asleep.

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"Joshua, wake up!" A voice shouted from outside.

The teenager's head was muffled with a deep fog, and the sounds around him merged with the baritone rumble from behind his temples.

His skin was completely numb. Even the notorious tingling sensation had withered away to non-existence. He attributed the feeling – or lack of – to a pinched nerve.

"Sorry! I'm awake!" He assured, jumping out of bed and leaping towards the door.

He was unsure to how long his mother had been outside his room. It was unlike him to sleep so heavily, but due to his flu Josh gave himself a break.

Unbeknownst to the teenager, as he neared the entrance to his room, he also neared the most drastic change in his existence:

It was this moment that Josh's life changed forever. This turn of the handle; this opening of the door; this breath he took, would be the last within the walls of his normal life.

As the physical separation between he and his mother was pulled away, he exposed himself in the doorway of his bedroom.

Her eyes opened wide and bled with abhorrence, hysteria and shock. "J.. Josh, what did you do?" She screamed, taking a step backwards and placing her hands in front of her. "Please tell me that's not real?"

A bewildered Josh looked at his mother before raising a brow. "Mom, what's wrong? What're you talking about?"

"Y.. your s.. skin!" She shrieked, throwing herself against the wall behind, using distance as her protection.

Josh rolled up his sleeve and brought his arm close to his eyes.

And there it was.

Josh's skin had been blanched of it's peach color, and instead was ventured in a flat, crystallized and golden surface. Horror and panic stabbed him in the back as the shock embedded a mental knuckle into his temple.

"Mom, I.. I! Help me! Mom! Help!" He screamed, running towards her, only to be knocked backwards with a cottony slap to the face.

Not only did she slap him away physically, the impact of her bag touching his face sent a surge of realization through Josh. He felt the human inside step out of his body without even a goodbye. With the death of his skin color, came the death of the person he once knew.

His mother's icy eyes scanned him with reluctance. Neither of them moved – or even blinked – as they stared into each others' eyes.

Fear, remorse, and .. disgust wept from her pupils, as faint shrieks emitted from the back of her throat.

"Mom, I don't know what's happened. You need to bring me to the hospit-"

"No!" She roared,murdering the words on Josh's lips. "You will not be seen with that .. that ornamentation on your skin!"

Tears built up in the golden teenager's eyes, gently blobbing out and rolling down a hardened crystal cheek.

Was this the outcome of that recurring migraine and skin sensitivity?

"It's still me Mom!" Josh cried, sliding down the wall and onto the floor. "You need to help me! Maybe I've got skin condition; you need to bring me to a doctor!"

His mother ignored him as bitter tear tinkled down her own face. "There's only one place for a mutant," she growled, before backing away slowly and turning towards the stairs.

"Your father needs to see this."

Josh sought his father's approval since before he could remember ….

"He'll decide what to do with you," she seethed, gritting her teeth. "How could you do this to us? Our reputations! Our careers! We're the parents of a beast!"

Her words pierced Josh. They punctured that part of him that Dalores had filled with her love and care. His ability to love and hope bled out of him, as her tongue slapped against her front teeth, forming the very words that sliced through his innocence.

Josh never noticed the approach of his father, who halted at the sight of his offspring, before looking at his wife.

"What happened to him? Is this some kind of joke?" He groused, his eyes flicking between Josh and Mrs. Foley.

"Does it look like a joke?" She spat, pointing at Josh's face. "Touch it, his skin is completely hard, and .. golden. He's one of those mutants."

His father's eyes descended onto his cowering son, who was curled against the wall, and shivering in fear and aghast.

"My.. My son is a .. mutant?"

Josh longed for someone's embrace. He was alone, and void of Dalores and Barney, the two people that would understand him. He needed someone to tell him that it'll be alright.

His father looked weak at the knees. "Sweetheart," he said, addressing his wife, "we need to get him out. Nobody can know."

Josh's mother looked at Josh with eyes full of daggers and fury, before turning back to her husband. "You're right. Imagine what he'd do to our reputation: the parents of a mutant."

Her words punched his father in the stomach, as he looked to the sky with watery shields over his eyes.

"Why? What did we do to deserve this?" He didn't seem to address anybody in the room. Josh was unbeknownst to the recipient of his words, until he realized that his father was questioning the intentions of God.

"I gave 2.5% of my business assets to charity, and yet my son – my only son – becomes a mutant. Why?" He fell to his knees and began to sob into his hands. Ms. Foley crawled to her spouse and gently rocked him back and forward, with her arms around his broken frame.

"We'll get through this," she assured, shooting a glare of blame towards her son, "this wasn't our fault."

Josh's body, nerves, emotions .. they were all numbed. He couldn't feel his now-hard skin, but simply experienced a tight sensation around his body; it was as if he had been left to harden in a mould of golden cement, or a smooth, rocky, virus had crawled up and around his body, tainting it with a rustic hue.

Josh's mind flashed to those comic book characters that were made of rock and had chunky shale-like exteriors. This wasn't the case for him. The newly golden crystallization of his skin, didn't add any new layers of mineral; it was simply his own skin, but just harder, golden and marble-like.

"There's a school," declared Mrs. Foley, ripping Josh from his brief mental repose, "its for people like him."

"What's it called?" Asked her husband, wiping away his tears and sniffing away a whimper, "where in the country is it?"

Mrs. Foley shook her head, as the ghost of the memory mocked her heed. "It's on the east coast. It's called –" She sewed her eyes together in concentration, before almost leaping to her feet when she remembered. "Xaviers! It's called Xaviers! It's a school for his kind."

.. his kind, his type, his people..

Blair's face, along with every word he ever spoke to Josh, cleaved itself into his head, before the teenager's heartbeat quickened and he leapt to his feet.

"No!" He roared, clenching two golden fists together. "I'm not a mutant, there's been a mistake! Blair would never have spoken to me if he thought I'd become one. Please! This is some kind of trick. Mom, Dad, you need to listen to me. I'm Josh! I haven't changed! I'm your son!"

Aghast had imbued his words to a degree Josh had never felt before. His very being was suspended in a limbo of disbelieve and tribulation. On one end, he felt as if his emotions were in a deep comatose, yet, the factors which hushed this ability to feel, were vigorous and thriving.

Identifying how he was feeling, or what he was feeling, became a shapeless task and Josh could no longer distinguish the boarders of one emotion from the other.

His self-perception and definition hanged themselves parallel to his mutation. The formations of his humanity crumbled beneath him, as he spiraled to his demise, and into a turbulent macrocosm of chaos and anomaly.

"He'll leave as soon as possible," she concluded, before turning to Josh and addressing him: "You will stay in your room until told otherwise. I will call this school and insist that you are given a place. You will not call or text anyone."

Josh remained frozen to the wall, with his head in his arms and his body curled up as close as his spine would allow. He tried to convince himself that this was a dream, that somebody spiked his drink at the party and his deepest troubles were surfacing as a result.

As his parents floated away in disbelief, Josh remained on the floor, defiant that none of this was real, and that he would wake up any second.

He was Joshua Foley. There was no way he could be a mutant. It wasn't possible. Would he ever see Dalores again? By what means could he communicate with Barnell? What would he say to Blair?

He began to fear for his life at the thought of Blair, and suddenly, Barnell's words began to sting his mind:

.."Look how brutal he was to that kid. What if someday, that kid is you? .."

Images of that violent night charged to the fore-front of his mind and rammed into his consciousness, causing him to jerk his head upwards.

It became too much. His threshold began to vomit his fear, disgust, self-loathe and anguish. Like lights slowly flicking off down an empty hall, Josh's brain shut down, and the teenager's head gently fell back into his arms.

His life had changed, forever.

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Josh's eyes began dry, and salty crystals formed around his lashes. The memories of his transformation tore at his stomach with vicious swipes, and his recollection of his parents' words and reactions thumbed his throat with malicious pressure.

His dorm was completely empty. Most other students had roommates, but Josh seemed to be an exception, as the bed beside his own remained completely untouched.

However, he did notice a box containing a few odd items before Laurie had interrupted his night. It was pushed against the wall, under the empty bed, but he had no idea who it belonged to, or to the reasons why someone would leave their belongings in a room, which they didn't reside in.

Again, it didn't appear as if he had a roommate, so he decided that he'd run it past his 'friend,' Laurie Collins, in the morning, and see if she knew who the crate belonged to.

His zapped body remained panned out on his single-bed. He had no more energy to dwell on the past. He needed to remain vigilant from now onwards. Blair had stopped texting him after a few days of his transformation, and Josh feared that somehow, he'd found out.

Blair was a resourceful and dangerous man. Sending someone to 'check,' on Josh, wouldn't be much of a surprise to him.

Conversely, Josh remembered the piece of himself he left with Blair and the others. They saved his kindheartedness by plugging the vacuity of distrust in his nature, and Josh found himself feeling wistful and wishing to be back in their company. Aside from Dalores, they offered him meaning, values, and something to work for. He could never forget the purpose that Blair injected into his life.

But as two conflicting emotions – doubt and longing – warred with each other inside his mind, Josh heard the opening of a metallic clasp at the window.

Suddenly, doubt decapitated his longing, and fear of Blair's 'check up,' raced into his mind.

This is it. He's come for me.

The golden mutant stepped back, and reached for a baseball bat that he brought from California. A head poked into the curtains and slowly pulled it's body forward. As the curtains separated, and Josh's fingers gripped tighter to the neck of the bat, a head of auburn locks exposed itself, before exhibiting the body of a male, who seemed to be around Josh's age, or perhaps to his senior.

It didn't seem to be Blair.

The auburn teenager looked up at the shivering Josh and smiled warmly.

"You must be Josh. My name is Jay Guthrie. I'm your roommate."

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Hope you all enjoyed reading Chapter 2 as much as I enjoyed writing it!